


Masochist

by strawberry_cider



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM elements, Dirty Talk, Gore, Graphic Description, Jon gets lost the sauce, Multi, Mutual Pining, Office Romance, Office Sex, Secret Relationship, Stabbing, Tim is exhausted with everyone, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, everyone learns something new about themselves, he tries to take control of it, jon is fed up with getting scars against his will, michael gladly helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22387309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_cider/pseuds/strawberry_cider
Summary: His idea was, to put it plainly, to stab himself.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> People who chatted with me about this, you know who you are and I hope you like it ;)

"Michael?"

No answer.

"Michael."

Still no answer. He'll try one more time, then give up. It was a bad idea anyway.

"Michael, I want to ask you a favour."

No answer.

Jon sighed and got up, resigned, when he heard the creak of a door. It came from a door next to his own, sickly yellow and old wood. Michael stepped out, a very curious look on his face. As far as Michael would have guessed, the Archivist would have done everything in his power to not let him into his home. He hadn't been there in a long while, chosing the safety of the Institute over the small apartment that was collecting dust by the second.

He seemed to be in the Archivist's bedroom. It was clean, plain and untouched for weeks, except for the bed covers where Jon had been sitting while waiting. It was evening, the sky outside the window going darker and darker shades.

"Hello, Archivist!" Michael said, deeply curious of what was happening.

"Yes, uh, hello..." Jon said. He didn't really expect Michael to answer. Michael loved to mess with him (he would have been tempted to think Michael had a crush on him if he were not, you know, a monster with no remorse), but Jon didn't think he'd come when called. This meant it was too late to back out now.

"What favour would you like to ask of me?"

"Yes, the favour..." Jon said, avoiding Michael's eyes, not just because they were hard to look at in general. The Archivist looked hesitant. Embarrassed, somehow. Michael was _very_ curious. "Michael..."

"Yes, Archivist?" He asked, smiling.

"... I want you..."

" _Yes_?"

"...To stab me again."

"What?"

Jon grabbed his own hair and groaned. What the fuck was he thinking, why did he think it was a good idea in any way?

His idea was, to put it plainly, to stab himself. Brilliant, isn't it?

“Alright!”

“Huh?”

“I'll do it!”

“...Really?”

“Sure!”

“Oh...”

“Come here.”

“W-Wait! Hold on!”

Jon backed away too much and too fast, and the back of his knees hit his bed and he fell on his butt. Michael was looming over him even more. “Let me finish, first.” Jon said, using his stern voice.

“... Alright.” Michael said, thoroughly amused.

“I want you to cut the skin on my back. On my back _only_. Not so much as to kill me. It will heal, so I doubt you can do it anymore.” Jon noticed Michael's brow twitch a little. “I want you to leave scars, if you can.”

“And what do I get in exchange, Archivist?”

“You get to hurt me.”

“... Deal.”

Michael took a seat next to Jon and Jon unintentionally backed away.

“You're the one who asked for this.” Michael said, tilting his head. “You are awfully indecisive.”

“Well, you're not exactly the most trustworthy being out there.” Jon said.

“Why would you not trust me, Archivist? I have helped you before, haven't I?”

“You've also stabbed me for fun and been cryptic as all hell.”

“It is stabbing you ask of me! If you do not trust me, then why did you ask me, _of all beings out there_ , to help you? I'm sure there are plenty of others out there that would stab you in the back before you finished proposing it to them, and they are much less _awful_ than I am.”

“Well... you are not the worst.”

Michael stared at him. “How can you be so sure of that?”

“You had every chance to kill me since you arrived. But you didn't and you even let me talk.”

Michael didn't say anything, neither confirming or denying, only smiling at Jon, eyes slightly crinkled.

“So,” Michael started, “how I am to cut you if you do not trust me?”

“Um, I...”

“Prove you can trust me? Somehow?”

“I-I don't know!” Jon did not think this through.

“What would _soothe_ your nerves?”

“Knowing that your... freaking... 'knife' hands don't slice everything they get near, maybe! Can you even do that?”

“Not slice?”

“Y-Yeah, on purpose.”

“Let's find out!”

Jon gasped and made to say “wait”, when the tip of one of Michael's long, horrible fingers tapped the corner of his eye, then slowly, smoothly slid across his cheek all the way to his jaw. It did not cut him, but Jon could feel the line it traced and left behind. Jon was shut up immediately, his breath stopped in his throat. Like grabbing a kitten by the back of its neck, Michael thought and smiled. Jon remembered to breathe and let out a shaky exhale. Michael continued, dragging the blade along his jawline, underneath his chin. It went back up his jaw, underneath his ear, then down, down, to the middle of Jon's neck, where Michael slowly moved it across, over each tendon and Adam's apple, to the other side. Jon did not hold his breath and looked right at Michael, who looked like he was enjoying himself.

“Very good.” He said and Jon felt his face grow warm.

“Okay... You've convinced me.”

“A little more.” He said, scooting closer. He pulled his hair behind his ears and cupped his face.

Jon furrowed his brows.

“Relax, okay, Archivist?” Michael said, stroking his cheeks.

Jon took a deep breath and sighed, closing his eyes.

Michael’s hands were long and very sharp. They scratched his cheeks, his cheekbones, his jawline, his ears, even if he tried to be gentle. He traced the apples of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the arches of his eyebrows, the shape of them, his temples. They stroke the scars on Jon's face, felt the dips and injured skin. Jon sighed again, unconsciously leaning forward into his hands. They lightly stroked his eyelids and Jon felt a lump in his throat. They returned to his eyebrows and then his temples, brushing back hair and cradling his face. Jon's lips were parted and he thought he felt the lightest peck on them. He opened her eyes with no little effort. Michael looked so serene and content. He stroked a thumb over Jon's lip.

He pushed his finger against the middle of the lip and Jon could feel the skin about to break. Jon felt his heart beat faster as he looked Michael in the eyes, and then felt the sting of the cut radiating in his entire lip. Jon's eyes glossed over. A drop of blood rolled inside his mouth, on his tongue.

“ _Very_ good...” Michael cooed, licking his finger clean.

Jon straightened his back and took off his shirt, his heart pounding. His body was skinny and gangly, a mess of scars and green bruises yet to go away completely. He hated his scars. They were marks of all the beings that wanted him dead, all the times his life was put in danger, all the times he was afraid. They were marks of all the times something outside of his control happened, all the times he had no say in his own destiny, he was in the control of things that wanted him to suffer and got it. Jon was small and weak, he did not understand what was happening, he had no control over his own life. He hated that. He hated it, he was sick and tired of it, he wanted to scream and cry and get away and punch and bite and scar back, but couldn't.

He wanted control, wanted to decide for himself, knowing 100% it was _him_ and not something or someone luring him in a trap, in another scheme. Jon wanted control over his own being, even if all that could be was pain and more scars. So be it. He'll claim back what all those monsters and evil gods and awful people used against him. He'll cover their scars with his own, by his own volition, by his own choice, and revel in them, wear them proudly, ache knowing it was just him, only him, and not another menace that did this. He'll be cut and sliced and stabbed and beaten and bit and bruised and broken because _he_ said so and _no one else_.

Jon was breathing heavily and his eyes were not all there. He lost it. He lost it a long time ago. Michael smiled wider.

“Come…” He said, lying against the bed frame and urging Jon to do the same, hand still on his cheek.

Jon crawled into Michael's arms, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his head in the crook of his neck, cheek to cheek. Michael's hair tickled his nose. Jon shivered and keened and Michael dragged his fingers across his back in random patterns, only scratching and teasing. He pressed closer, flat against him. Michael smelled of cold air, as if it was winter.

Michael brought both of his hands to the back of Jon's shoulders. “I'm going to do it.” He said in Jon's ear. He sounded equally excited.

“Go.” Jon said, taking a deep breath while smiling. He felt one of Michael's hands move to the small of his back and the other being raised off him. He tried to anticipate it, snuggling closer, as he felt the tip of a finger press near one of his armpits.

Jon let out a strangled cry as the blade cut into skin, far deeper than his lip, and it was dragged, slow and steady, over both shoulder-blades. He gnashed his teeth and writhed. He felt it brush his bones. The pain muted everything else and Michael moved so agonisingly slow. The way to the other side of his back felt far too long. Only when it stopped and Michael removed his finger did he notice the feeling of blood dripping down his back.

“Very good, Archivist.” Michael laughed softly. “I expected you to tell me to stop!”

Jon panted and babbled something in response.

“Do you want more?” Michael asked, lips against his ear.

Jon nodded.

Michael drew another straight cut, very much the same way, but lower. God, was it Jon who just made that sound? The two cuts were already closing up. Michael cut diagonally, across the first two, opening them back. Jon bit into the fabric of his shoulder to muffle himself, but only made himself sound more obscene.

“You're shaking like a leaf,” Michael said, drawing another straight line, “but you're not moving away at all. It's fascinating, you know?” He followed the line of his spine and Jon's voice cracked. “To ignore the primal instinct of avoiding pain. To actively put yourself in the _hands_ of danger. You look mad, Archivist. Is this another one of your ingenious solutions to your problems?”

“Suh... s-sort off...” Jon rasped out. It hurt to breathe, to move his body. He couldn't help himself laugh at the idea of explaining it like that. “Hah... ha-hah...” Everything was so silly and unreal. Jon's plan didn't make any sense. Nothing did! Everything was backwards! Pain shouldn't feel so good!

Michael laughed back and Jon felt the sound ring in his skull, cover the feeling of his heartbeat, choke him, make his wounds throb. Jon laughed and laughed, inbetween pants and gasps. Wow, he really lost it, didn't he? Michael rewarded him with more cuts and Jon's laugh dissolved into slurred giggles.

Jon woke up with his face in Michael’s hair. He was atop of Michael, his arms around his head, Michael's face on the crook of his neck and his arms around his waist. Jon's entire body hurt, he felt weak and his skin felt dirty. There was a small space between his cheek and Michael's temple that allowed him breathe. Michael seemed fast asleep. He was breathing slowly and deeply, gently rocking Jon with the rise of his chest, snoring a little into his shoulder. Jon was wide awake. His eyes could open without any resistance and his mind was clear. It has been so long since he got a good rest that it surprised him. He opened his eyes and at first he thought he was deeper into his hair than he guessed. Then it hit him that it was dark in the room. It was night.

Jon's eyes opened wider and darted around. How long had they been lying like that? He couldn't remember falling asleep. Did he pass out? The last thing he could remember was... well, being in pain (and enjoying it more than he should). Trying to pry deeper made his heart race and his face burn. The room _reeked_ of blood. Maybe he fell unconscious from the combination of pain and blood loss. That's... not good. But then... Michael was still holding him. And Jon was calm and relaxed. He felt rested. He didn’t have a single dream.

He was careful to stay quiet and not wake Michael up. His cuts felt healed and washing could wait. It felt good to lie in his arms. His body was stiff and his arms were heavy. He squeezed Jon a little bit with every breath. At one point he shifted and wrapped his arms tighter, exhaling what sounded like a throaty growl against his neck. Jon bit his lips, remembering more things, including the cut on his mouth. It shouldn’t have felt so good. His heart had no reason to flutter in delight like that.

Michael's breathing changed and his eyes opened. Jon felt his eyelashes against his neck.

“Archivist...” He whispered and Jon blushed despite himself. “Are you awake?”

Jon hummed that yes, he was.

Michael sighed content, rubbing his back. Jon stifled a whimper without much success.

“Hmm... My handiwork is mostly gone.” Michael said. “But your body remembers being battered.”

“Y-Yeah...” Jon said, ragged and feeling like he should like to cough. His throat hurt, as it does after using your voice too much and too loud. “Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Did I pass out or...?”

“Ah, yes. I cut your back, as you asked of me. Your skin was stubborn, it kept growing back. It took a while to make some of them stick. It looked so beautiful before that. It looked like you had been flogged with 50 lashes!”

Jon tried really hard not to shudder at that mental image.

“You, Archivist, were equally lovely. I don't think you would have known how to tell me your name, had I asked. All you knew and could think about was more pain. You went truly mad!” Michael laughed, thrilled. “You were sliding off of me and the blood helped you, but you continued to ask me all sorts of things-”

“W-What?!”

“I couldn't parse what you were saying too well, but I'm pretty sure you asked me to gouge your eyes out and to slit your throat. You even showed me the scar that hunter left you as a guideline.”

“Oh-okay, that's enough. Thank you.”

“ 'More! More!' you said, like a spoiled brat. Like you were trying to seduce me.”

“ _I said that's enough_!” Jon said and made himself hack into Michael's hair with the force of it.

“I'm not surprised.” Michael said, moving a hand to pet the back of his neck. “The way you moaned and sobbed, I'm surprised you have any voice left at all.”

Jesus fucking Chirst, why did he _have_ to use the word “moan”?!

“I, uh,... Thank you, Michael...” Jon decided to say.

“You're welcome, Archivist.” Michael said, sighing content.

Both of them stood quiet. Michael made no move to let him go.

“Um... You... can let me go now. You can leave.”

“And leave you like this?”

“I can wash myself.”

“It's hard to reach your back. For you, at least.”

Jon didn't say anything. Michael was hard to understand. Jon thought there might be something human left in Michael that didn't let him just leave Jon in the messy state he was. Jon found himself smiling and feeling tender.

“Alright...” Jon said and moved his arms from under Michael so he could push himself up. He immediately regretted it and fell back on Michael, cursing out. Michael laughed at him. Jon felt him slid away from under him and walk out Jon's door. Great, now Michael's snooping around his old apartment.

Jon listened to his steps around the hallway. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something to help you wash.”

“Do you know what you need?”

“... No.”

With a lot of difficulty, Jon was manoeuvred into the bathroom and inside the tub. He brought spare clothes and he is _not_ taking his pants off in front of Michael. Before climbing in the tub, Jon looked at his back in the mirror and his eyes went wide. His back was mostly healed, but still had five dark, deep gashes starting from his shoulder blades to the small of his back, beneath a thick layer of dry blood. His back was a disaster, that he authorized. Jon's chest felt tight and a smile crept on his lips.

The shower head sputtered a couple of times before spraying water out properly. Jon told Michael to let it flow for a few seconds until the water was clean. Jon wasn't sure of the last time he stayed in his apartment, thus when he last used anything in it. The Archives became his new home. Jon was brought back from his thoughts by freezing cold water on his back, that made him yelp and jump.

“Sorry.” Michael said.

Jon sighed and bared the cold water. He felt the dry blood come off in sheets. Eww. The water felt a little soothing on his new scars. They were soft and raw to the touch, but formed, like they had happened weeks, if not months ago, not a few hours ago. Michael stroked his back with the same gentleness he touched his face and Jon relaxed, placing his chin on his knees and closing his eyes.

“I think it's done!” Michael said and Jon woke up again.

“Thank you.” Jon said, drowsy.

When Jon returned to the bedroom, the stench almost made him vomit. Jon picked the bag with spare clothes and quickly went to the living room. Michael watched him and followed him in silence. Jon glared at him, blushing furiously, and Michael sat in the doorway with his back turned to him. Jon sighed and quickly got dressed, throwing his wet pants somewhere in a corner. He had already dragged water everywhere, not to mention what happened in the bedroom. He wasn't going to return to the apartment, maybe ever. It's not his problem anymore.

Jon sat heavily on the couch. He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts and opened them when he felt Michael sit beside him. Jon assured him he will go back to the Institute in a moment and sleep there, in safety, but he didn't protest when Michael pulled him down on top of him again. He fell back asleep quickly, hugging Michael, feeling his mouth against his hairline and his arms crossing over his waist. Jon hadn't felt so at peace in a long time. Michael wasn't so scary anymore. Take that, Spiral.

Jon hissed as he took his coat off and draped it over his desk-chair. His back felt as thought he tried to impersonate a pretzel in his sleep. The night he spent with Michael was a Friday and it felt that way throughout the entire weekend. Saturday morning, as the sun was rising, he felt Michael set him on the couch after he got out himself and then leave through his door. He heard it click shut. He wondered if Michael was aware he woke up because of him and awake to feel him kiss Jon on the forehead.

Jon smiled to himself and tried to hide it, but only smiled wider. He still couldn't think of that night without breathing shakily. He tried to think of reasons to propose doing it again, more for himself than for Michael, who would happily oblige.

“Jon!” Basira said as she came quickly in his office.

“Basira?”

“Isn't this your address?” She said as she showed him her phone. On it was displayed a news site where one of the articles was about an apartment that was found with the bed covered in blood. It talked about the inexplicable gore filling the room, then about how discarded clothes were thrown about. One of the elderly neighbours (oh no, not Mrs Gibs) gave an interview where she vaguely recalled hearing screaming during that evening, but she thought it came from outside, because the lad living upstairs hadn't been around in weeks, until the other neighbours pointed out to her that nothing happened outside on back then.

“Y-Yes, t-that's mine!” Jon said, face burning so hard it felt like it was going to crack. He thanked every and any God out there for Basira taking his flustering for fear and concern.

“This is bad.” She said, taking her phone back in front of her. “I have no idea what they might have tried to do, but it's _definitely_ bad.”

“Y-Yeah-”

“If they know your old address, they surely know mine too! And Daisy's!!”

“That's bad!”

“I'll go warn her and the others. God, will we ever catch a break?”

Basira left, refreshing the page to see if anything new was found out. Jon put his head in his hands, dying of embarrassment. This is _so_ bad. He'll call Michael again, but to get rid of evidence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are spicy in the Magnus Institute.

Jon sat forehead to forehead with Michael, with his arms around his shoulders, hands tangled in his hair. They sat on the floor in Michael's hallways, Jon's back against a wall. Michael supported himself with one arm on the floor, while the other was slicing and picking at Jon's stomach.

Michael proposed cutting him open from his chin to his crotch and gutting him like a fish, but that would take longer to heal and might leave a mark that clothes can't hide. Jon managed to pass red lines on his lips for them being chapped. Melanie told him to “drink water, for fuck's sake”.

Jon was looking down between them, watching what Michael was doing to him, how blood dripped and seeped into his pants, how Jon's legs were lewdly spread and over Michael's thighs. He cut open a few slits from his ribcage to his belly-button. The remaining skin kind of looked like prison bars. Jon could see his own organs as Michael kept messing around the holes, putting a finger through a slit and poking it out another one, pulling up the skin inbetween, or pulling up a part of the intestine. Jon kept thinking the fingers would cut them, which might be really bad and dangerous, cause internal injuries, which only made him blush harder. Michael would bring his fingers up and lick them clean, making Jon wonder what his tongue would feel like.

Oh, Michael wouldn't shut up. He kept edging him on, talking about how warm and wet his insides felt, how good it felt in him, with the sweetest, most disgustingly innocent tone. Jon's face burnt so much but he couldn't stop moaning, his entire being was on fire, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he trembled so hard it felt like he was going to fall apart.

The fire slowly dissipated and Jon felt boneless. Michael deemed it was enough and stopped touching him, only sat close, nose against nose, and watched the wounds close up as if they never happened. He looked up at Jon, who's eyes were unfocused, far away in the distance. His cheeks were streaked with tears that Michael knew not to worry about. Jon's heart and breathing calmed down and upon realising Michael had been looking him in his unseeing eyes, he quickly closed them, feeling his cheeks burn again. Michael peppered kisses on his cheekbones, on his eyes, his brows and his forehead. Jon felt hot again and his throat ached. As Michael kissed his neck and jaw, they kept sliding lower and lower until they were lying down on the gaudy carpet.

Very pleased with the result, Michael shifted to lay partially on top of him, elbows on either side of him, hands threading in his hair. He shifted for a bit, minding not to crush him on accident, before sighing content and grazing fingers along his temples.

“Are you asleep yet, Archivist?” He whispered. His fingers grazing the sides of his face and going through his hair, by his ears, kept Jon from drifting away. He moved his hands from beneath Michael and took to holding his wrists. “You liked it a lot, didn't you? Did I do good?”

“Mmh-hmm...” Jon sighed, leaning into Michael's palms.

“You were so pretty like that, red-faced and debauched. You’re always pretty, of course.” His face was close to Jon's again. He could feel his breath on his mouth and chin.

“I’ll let you go back after you catch your breath. You can make up some excuse as to why it took you so long.” He said. “I don’t want my Archivist going back looking sick. Even if he looks good all drowsy and whimpering.” He rubbed thumbs on her cheeks. Jon tried to shift away, blushing harder, but the wall was against the top of his head. “Aww, are you embarrassed?” He asked, laughing. “Don’t be shy with me, little Archivist. I thought we were long past that… You're so cute when you're flustered… It’s not often that it happens. You’re usually so proud, aren’t you?”

Michael leaned to Jon's ear. “I'm proud too... You have no idea how it feels to hear your own name screamed in pleasure… To think I can do this to you…” Michael's voice was full of lust. His human form was coming undone. “What else can I do, Archivist?”

“Whatever you want...” Jon said, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. His head felt light and his entire body ached so much. It was the best feeling in the world, he loved the pain, no one and nothing could harm him. He was gutted open but still alive, still breathing, still kissing and moaning. He had the Distortion around his finger, ravishing him on command. Jon felt high from power and wanted more and more.

Jon returned to the Institute an absurdly long time later after going out “for coffee”, but, thankfully, nobody noticed him being gone. It made Jon feel a little bad, but he ignored it, not wanting his date to be overshadowed.

He sat down next to Tim, Martin and Basira. They were talking about the “break-in” in Jon's apartment. A former colleague told Basira that all the evidence was gone. Somebody stole all of it. The security showed someone boldly walking around the evidence locker and calmly, unhurriedly picking everything. There was no footage of them entering the station, then the locker, or of them leaving. They just... materialised inside the evidence locker and disappeared just as quickly. The normally good-quality camera showed his face blurred and indistinguishable and his proportions all off. It was a tall man in a coat more appropriate for winter and light coloured hair.

“Could it be Michael?” Martin asked.

“I think it's him.” Basira said. “But _why_? Nothing makes sense!”

“He usually doesn't.” Tim said, cheek in his palm and elbow on the table.

“The bloody bedroom would be Flesh-related in my opinion. But then why would the Spiral get rid of evidence for it?”

“Maybe they allied?” Martin said.

“That would be just _wonderful_ for us.” Tim groaned.

Jon was careful to stay very quiet as the discussion continued. His face burnt too hard anyway to make a sound that wouldn't come out cracked. God, when will this thing end. He and Michael met only in his hallways for a while now. Jon should have done that from the beginning. But no, he had to rush and be an idiot and now the case kept escalating in “mystery” and his nerves kept being stretched to infinity and beyond. Jesus, when will this nightmare (in particular) end?

The rest of the day continued as normally as it could for the archival team. At Basira's insistence, everyone slept in the Institute that night.

Jon, in his office, changed into pyjamas. He paused for a moment to look at his stomach, which didn't have any new scars on it, but could perfectly recall where Michael cut him up. He was tracing them with his own fingers and feeling warm again.

He lied down on the spot he designated for a bed and pulled the blanket over himself. He sighed into the pillow and tried to relax, but he was agitated and couldn't get comfortable. His mind kept wandering to sweet memories.

"Michael..." He whispered, lying fully on his stomach and hugging the pillow. The darkness of the office hid the redness of his face.

"You're so naughty, Archivist..." Michael's hand stroked his back and pulled the blanket off. "Didn't we have fun today, already? Are you insatiable? And calling me at work..." He dragged his fingers along his spine and Jon raised himself to meet him, butt up in the air. "Where the others can catch you..." Michael looked at the door, where there were sounds of people still awake.

Jon gasped as he felt Michael lie over him and slip his hand up his shirt, over his belly.

"So, so naughty..."

Martin's footsteps passed in front of Jon's office and came to a halt near the door. Jon almost had a heart attack. It was dead quiet for a moment as everyone listened for sounds. Jon clutched his mouth shut with his hands when he felt Michael's hand move into his pants, scratching the inside of his thighs and the inside of his pelvis.

"Be careful, Archivist." Michael said against his ear. " _Whatever_ will you do if they find you like this?" He laughed as his fingers slipped under Jon's underwear. Jon was panting into his hands.

"Martin?" Basira said and caught his attention.

"Oh! Hi!" Martin said, turning his head away from Jon's closed door.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, uh, I just thought I heard something..."

"Hmm.” Basira intonated, trying to think of a conversation topic. “What are you doing?"

"Just going to get some water, then go to bed."

"I'm going too in a moment, I just have to make a call."

Martin reached the cafeteria and, to his surprise, Tim was there. He was sitting with his back to the door and he was hunched over the table. He turned his head towards Martin when he heard him come in and his shoulders lost some of the tension.

“Hey.” He said.

“Hi.” Martin said, giving him a gentle smile. Tim was often-times rude, but Martin couldn't blame him, not really. Everyone was under a lot of stress and Tim was an honest man, he didn't hide his stress and displeasure.

“Tim, would you like some tea?” Martin offered. “It would help you sleep.”

Tim thought for a moment, watching Martin's soft smile in the dim light. “Sure.” He smiled back.

Martin quickly made him a warm cup of chamomile tea. Tim thanked him quietly and took a long sip. He felt the warmth seep from his stomach to his chest and his bones. Martin watched him drink, watched Tim's sculpted lips hug the brim of the cup and his throat bob. Tim sighed, letting out the heat from the drink, and Martin's eyes fell of his unshaven chin and cheeks.

“Thanks!” Tim thanked again, his beautiful lips curling up into a smile.

“Y-You're welcome!” Martin stammered and hurried to the door, bidding Tim “goodnight”. God, could Martin stop crushing on every single good-looking man he meets?! He forgot to pour himself water.

Basira watched Martin walk across the hallway to where he chose to sleep as she listened to the phone dialling. On the other end, Daisy picked up. There was a murmur of people in her background.

“What's up?” Daisy said.

“Hey, I wanted to talk with you.” Basira said, seating herself comfortably in her chair.

“About Jon's apartment?”

“Yeah... I'm just... I'm just worried.”

“Is this your way of inviting me over? I'll be fine, Basira. I can defend myself.”

“I know, I know...”

Daisy laughed. “The only thing I have to worry about is how _bad_ the booze in this place is.”

Basira laughed too.

“Seriously! My tongue feels awful!” Daisy continued.

“Sorry I didn't join you.” Basira smirked. “I would have treated your tongue better.”

Basira needn't see Daisy to know she was smiling.

“You know what?” Daisy said. “I will come over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, tomorrow, though. I shall pay you a visit. First thing in the morning.”

“What an early-bird!”

“I'll let you decide for yourself how my tongue is.”

“How will I do it? Or is it a surprise?”

“I can tell you right now, just let me ditch this place. I don't want the whole bar hot and bothered by knowing how I'll rail you tomorrow.”

Basira bit her lip. The murmur of drunk people was replaced with the sounds of cars late at night.

“There.” Daisy said. “Let me think... First, we'd find a nice and quiet office, just for us. The Magnus Institute, scary shit and all, it’s still and Institute, right?”

“Yeah, mostly.”

“So there are supplies over there. Good, good. I'll have what to tie you up and gag you with. If not, I'll steal someone's tie on the way in.”

Basira smiled wide.

“What will you do next?”

“I'll lie you on a desk, like a delicious meal on a table. Then I'll eat you whole.” Daisy growled into the phone and Basira squirmed in her chair. “You won't know your name by the time I'm done. Your legs are so soft and lithe, I bet they'll feel so good between my teeth.”

Basira exhaled shakily in her phone and Daisy cackled at her. “Dream of me tonight.” Daisy said.

“Yes.” Basira said, blushing hard.

Tim woke up later than usual. He felt so groggy and sleepy, it was like he didn't rest at all. Fan-fucking-tastic. He blindly made his way outside to get some fresh air. He met with Jon, who was anxiously shoving a blanket and some clothes to the bottom of a bin. Jon gasped and stared at him wide-eyed. There was what looked like blood stains on the fabric. Tim wanted nothing to do with it. He turned around and left without saying a word and before Jon could think of anything either.

He made himself a cup of coffee and, still in pyjamas, searched for a quiet place to enjoy and to try to feel less like shit. He opened a random office, only to find Daisy and Basira in it. Basira was laid over the desk and Daisy was between her legs, a hand holding Basira's neck, another in her pants, and her lips on her cheek. Both women gasped and froze when he opened the door. Tim looked at the scene for a moment, coffee steaming in his hand, soul leaving his body, then he closed the door without saying anything and quickly went away.

Finally he arrived in the archives, where he rubbing his hands against his face and through his hair, cursing. One moment of peace, that's all he wants. Is that too much? Huh? Is it, God?

“Good morning, Tim!” Martin said as he sat next to him.

“...Good morning.” Tim said, looking at his fingers, feeling a little better.

Elias called for a meeting with the archival staff later that day. Tim and Martin were there, but both Jon and Basira were running late. Elias looked to be in an extremely bad mood and it took everything in his being to retain his noblesse.

Basira, then Jon, eventually arrived. Basira claimed she went to talk with Daisy and got stuck in traffic. Jon said he went to buy some groceries and the line was huge. Both of them refused to make eye-contact with Tim. Tim was openly glaring at them. Martin was confused. Elias was livid.

“Hey, sorry I'm late!” Melanie said as she walked in. Her shirt had a wide collar and there was a large and deep red hickey on her neck, that she made no effort to hide. “I was on a date.”

Elias took a very deep breath that made him shake.

“I gathered you all here because I'd like-”

His phone rang, cutting him off. Elias looked like he contemplated for a second chucking it out the window. Still, he answered it.

“ _Yes_ , Rosie?” He said.

“Mr Bouchard, Peter Lukas is here. Should I let him in?”

Elias thought for a moment and a little smile spread on his lips. His eyes glazed over in something dark and dangerous. Jon recognised it and so did Basira. Their own partners had donned it. They stared at Elias in absolute shock, while Martin and Melanie looked at the two of them even more confused. Tim contemplated chucking himself out the window.

Elias regained his composure and coughed in his fist. “You, uh, you are all dismissed. We will get back to this later, as I have something I need to _attend_ to.”

Tim took one of the bottles of booze hidden in the cafeteria, poured himself a full glass and downed it.

He used to think he was going insane. Now, he was pretty sure it was _everyone else_ that was mad. As if things weren't weird and nightmarish enough, now people were fucking with them. There's no question regarding Basira and Daisy or Elias and that Lukas. As for Jon, Tim was pretty sure he was doing weird BDSM shit with the Distortion. He wasn't sure and, God, did he not want to know any details.

Tim couldn't wrap his head around doing such things. He was gentle lover. He liked to lavish his partners, not hurt them. What's to not like about going slow if it's passionate? He agreed that it was hot to get rough sometimes, but monsters? _Monsters_?! And _what_ the _fuck_ did Jon do to cover his bed in blood? How is he _alive_?

“Hey, Tim.” Martin said as he came in the cafeteria.

“Hey.” Tim said. “Want some?”

“Oh, uh, sure.”

Tim poured Martin a glass and watched him drink. Thank God good old Martin wasn't involved in all of this. He was too nice to get into such things, probably. Even in appearance, he was like an angel, with rosy cherub cheeks and curly locks, and rosy, plump lips, shiny from liquor... They must feel so soft to the touch...

Martin didn't know what to feel. He liked Jon, but he's been away so often lately. Something fishy is going on. There is something going on with Basira too. Martin could guess what it was in both cases, but dared not admit it. As long as it was out of sight, it was out of mind too. Most times. Things were complicated enough. He liked Jon. He knew for sure he had a crush on him. But Tim? The two of them had been buddies at most. Martin admitted he found him attractive – who wouldn't? - and if he dwelled on that he would surely fall for Tim too. But that was the last thing they needed. They were being hunted down by monsters on a daily basis ~~and some of them started fucking the monsters~~. The last thing he wanted to do was to make it worse with romantic and sexual feelings. Those could wait for better times. If there will ever be good times agai- _wait_ , why is Tim's hand on his cheek?

Before Martin could react, Tim kissed him, fully on the lips. Martin's eyes opened wide in shock, then closed and he leaned into it.

Tim moaned and pressed closer, caressing Martin's cheek and his neck. His hands wandered to Martin's chest, then pulled him into a hug. Martin tried to push him away, gasping out “Wait!”, but Tim kept going, pressing his tongue into his mouth. He jumped and yelped when pain shot through his mouth. He immediately let go of Martin and felt his lower lip, which was bleeding down his chin.

Martin looked at him straight in the eye, his blood staining his lips. Martin slowly and deliberately licked it off. “I _told you_ to wait.” He said, firmly, but couldn't hold back a smile when he saw Tim's stunned and flushed face.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading 🖤


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